Ultimately Uncanny
by The Duchess Of The Dark
Summary: Ultimate X-Men. You know Helena Draven as a movie-verse character - but what of her Ultimate introduction? An assassination plot, blackmail, intrigue and oh yes... vampires...
1. Default Chapter

Title: 

Title: Ultimately Uncanny

Author: The Duchess Of The Dark   
Teaser: My original character, Helena Draven, gets the Ultimate X-Men treatment. Alternate version of how she ended up joining Prof X's team.

Rating: R for violence

Disclaimer: All recognisable characters belong to Marvel. Helena Draven is mine.

Genre: Action/adventure. For more fiction (not fanfic) visit my page at Illona's Place Vampires www.bloodlust-uk.com/helenmurphyfiction.htm

Archive: Yes, but ask me first, please.   
Notes: You all know I've written Helena Draven (Raven) as a movie-verse character, but does she work as an Ultimate character??? Let me know… She's meaner & less moral than movie-verse Raven – and she wears cooler stuff… which is beside the point, really. Oh! Should she get together with Ultimate Wolverine?? Text in _italics _indicates thoughts, text in apostrophed _'italics'_ indicates telepathic communication.

*

****

Ultimate 'Raven' Profile

Real Name: Helena Draven **  
Occupation: **Adventurer, former operative for a British Government Black Ops unit (unconfirmed), former assassin.

Identity: Secret

****

Legal Status: Unknown

Place Of Birth: Liverpool, England**  
Group Affiliation: **X-Men**  
Base Of Operations: **Xavier Institute for Gifted Children, Salem Center, Westchester County, New York 

****

Height: 5'11" **  
Weight: **125 lbs**. **170lbs with adamantium.**  
Eye Colour: **Hazel green **  
Hair Colour: **Dark brown. **  
Powers:** Raven possesses extensive telekinetic and telepathic abilities. She can move any object within her line of sight & create 'shields'. She can also alter memories & perceptions, read thoughts & emit mental stun bolts. The exact extent of her psionic abilities is unknown. She also possesses hyper keen senses, a healing factor and claws similar to the Canadian mutant Wolverine.

****

Weapons: Raven possesses adamantium-laced, retractable claws housed in her forearms. At will, she can release them through her skin between the knuckles on each hand. **   
History: **Much of Helena's history is unknown due to a ten year gap in her memory. What she recalls from before that time is fragmented. She recalls her recruitment & training by a shadowy Intelligence agency in her native England, as well as subsequent undercover assignments. She volunteered for a high-risk assignment in eastern Europe, but recalls nothing after the mission's deployment for a further decade. She joined the X-Men when Professor Charles Xavier offered to help her recover her memories. She had previously turned down a recruitment offer from Magneto.

*

Jean Grey was quite simply bored out of her mind. Lounging on a padded sofa in the library, she propped her chin on her folded hands and tried not to eavesdrop on Hank and Ororo, who were giggling over an antique copy of the Kama Sutra in the next aisle. Henry McCoy had a way with women that had not diminished with his acquisition of blue fur. Storm giggled again, unconsciously projecting her exact thought process. Sighing, Marvel Girl twisted over onto her back and gazed at the ceiling, tightening her psychic shields. She did not need _that_ particular mental image popping up next morning when she saw them at breakfast. Glancing at the discarded book on the arm of the plush sofa, she narrowed her eyes and sent it flapping back to the shelf. It slotted itself neatly into a gap, though not the correct alphabetical place.

"Y'know, that's 'P' shelf – that should go in 'L'," Scott Summers said with mild reproach, lifting an eyebrow above his ruby quartz Oakley glasses.

"Bite me," Jean sighed, failing to inject the utterance with any real venom. 

Scott grinned and plopped down on the arm of the sofa, immaculate as always in beige cargo pants and a crisp white t-shirt. 

"That bad, huh?" he asked sympathetically. 

The redhead nodded and scowled, raking a hand through her short, fiery hair. Cyclops regarded the toes of his sneakers thoughtfully and rubbed a thumb across his chin. 

"W-ell," he said at length. "We could always.. uh… catch a movie…" he trailed off, then nonchalantly added, "If you want to, I mean."

Jean suppressed a smile, never ceasing to be amused by how awkward the usually confidant young man became around her. It rarely showed in his expression or voice, but his thoughts were clear enough. It was quite endearing. She sat up and wiggled the small kink from her back, stretching in such a way that her blue baby doll t-shirt rode up, exposing a silver ring in her navel. 

"Sure beats picking up on their projections," she announced in a stage whisper, nodding towards the next aisle. A tiny shriek, followed by Beast's baritone guffaw floated above the bookshelves. "Anything good showing?"

Shrugging undecidedly, Scott blew out his cheeks and tried not to appear like he was looking at Jean's slender, toned midriff. Not quite as oblivious as she appeared, she leaned back a little and watched the reflections on his glasses move as he turned his head a few milimetres.

"Dunno… there's a chick flick, a horror movie, and some actioner Bobby's been yammering about all week."

Smooth brow creasing, Jean considered the options, reasoning that a mindless chick flick would do little do alleviate her boredom and a horror film would make Scott assume she would cling to his arm and squeal. Despite the numerous real life horrors they had seen and endured, the notion still seemed firmly entrenched in the minds of the resident males. Her pert nose wrinkled.

"What's the actioner?" she asked, mentally crossing out the other two choices.

"'Death Commandos Five'!" Bobby Drake yelled happily as he skidded into the library, skate sneakers squeaking on the tiles.

Light brown hair hidden by a dark red bandana, the teenager came to an abrupt halt as he tripped over his own feet. Landing in an ungainly pile of gangly limbs at Scott's feet, he looked up and grinned.

"Oopsy," he said brightly. "Are you guys gonna go see it?"

Cyclops cocked a questioning eyebrow at Marvel Girl, who inwardly sighed, seeing the eager, almost yearning look on the Ice Man's face. 

"Yes, but –" She got no further as Bobby leapt up, galloped to the door and stuck his head out into the corridor.

"Hey! Piotr! We're gonna see 'Death Commandos Five'! Wanna come?" he bellowed with a cheerful disregard for the traditional silence observed in a library. 

A slight, but discernible tremour began in the floorboards as Colossus approached, his gargantuan frame filling the double doorway. Piotr Rasputin angled his dark head, blue eyes tracking back and forth between Cyclops and Jean. Seeing the small indent in Summer's brow that indicated a glare, he clapped the considerably shorter boy on the back.

"Maybe some other time," he said kindly, not noticing Bobby's involuntary wince at the friendly shoulder clasp. "I think Scott and Jean were planning a smaller outing."

Bobby stared up at the huge Russian, a puzzled frown puckering his forehead. Slowly, his expression cleared with dawning comprehension.

"Oh," he said, then shoved his hands into his pockets with teenaged knowing. "R-iii-ght."

Grinning, he sauntered out of the library under the guidance of Piotr's large hand on his shoulder. Jean smiled warmly and sent a mental thank you flitting after the departing Russian. For such a huge collection of superhumanly strong muscles, he was uncommonly sensitive. Catching another projection from Storm and Beast, she rolled her green eyes.

"Oh, get a room," she muttered.

"Shall we?" Scott asked chivalrously, indicating the door with a wave of his car keys.

Suddenly cheered up, the red-haired telekinetic favoured him with a small, mysterious smile and jumped to her feet. 

"Yeah," she beamed. "I'm young, free and attractive, it's a Friday night, so why not!"

"Ditto," Summers rejoined with a laugh.

Jean's smile faded as Logan passed by the library door, shouldering on his black leather jacket. He paused, black eyes moving between her and the self-appointed leader of the X-Men. Something undefinable flickered in his gaze, something almost sad, almost regretful, but mostly angry. Abruptly, he looked away, lip curling, and stalked off towards the garage. 

"That guy is a grade A psychotic," Cyclops remarked. "Why the Prof ever let him stay is beyond me. And he can look into his mind! You certainly wouldn't want him in your head."

_Or your bed,_ Jean thought, feeling the familiar mix of fury and wistfulness. _I don't think I can ever forgive him…_

Giving herself an inward shake, reminding herself she had decided not to brood over Wolverine or allow what had happened between them to make her bitter, she slipped her arm through Scott's. 

"Are we gonna see that movie or what?"

*

Downing the latest of many beers, Logan clunked down the empty tankard and reached for a brimming whisky chaser. He sat alone in a corner booth opposite the bar, watching the customers come and go. He had had no company all night, which was as he wished it. The anger radiating from him in spiked static lines dissuaded casual conversation from the average friendly drunk. As bars came, his chosen venue for the evening ranked among the worst. The tiled floor was beer-sticky underfoot, the toilets were putrid and the drinks list amounted to little more than beer, whisky or vodka in any combination. Nostrils flaring as he caught a whiff of skunkweed from the next booth, he debated whether or not to acquire some to lace his hand-rolled cigarette. To his disgust, the joint did not even sell cigars, the slot in the machine jammed.

Discontented and itching for a fight, he perused the bar room, black eyes taking in likely candidates. A group of street creatures in leathers hunched over the wobble-legged pool table, bulges at the shoulders indicating concealed holsters. From their accents, their locale was probably New Jersey rather than Salem. Wolverine grinned thinly; this made it less likely anyone would miss them. A huge, barrel-chested, balding man stood at the bar, steadily downing straight vodka. Estimating his height topped his by at least a foot, Logan briefly wondered if he was a mutant. Six fingered hands confirmed his suspicions as the man reached for his glass. 

Staring into the foamy dregs of his glass, Logan made an addition to the ever-growing list in his head of Things I Hate About Scooter. The younger man was law-abiding and upstanding way beyond anything Logan considered natural. It was altogether too suspicious to the taciturn Canadian's mind. 

_The anally retentive fuck-wit,_ he thought sourly. _Jeannie got too much fire fer a kid like him… Why the hell do I stay in that happy horse shit nut house they call Mutant High?_

Ignoring the small but persistent inner voice that told him he stayed because it was the only place he felt he partially belonged, and that what the Professor believed actually made some sense, he loped to the bar for a refill. An exclamation of furious disgust caught his attention and he glanced over to the card game in the far left corner of the room. Features lost in shadow, the lone female player reached forward and swept in a substantial pile of cash. Expertly stacking the crumpled green bills, her hand disappeared beneath the table, reappearing empty seconds later. 

"I dunno how you did it, but you cheated!" the loser snarled, scowling out from beneath a ratty, greasy black fringe. "Ain't nobody that good, girl!"

Leaning forward on her elbows, features suddenly bathed in the sickly overhead light, the woman's eyes narrowed.

"You fancy repeating that?" she said coldly. "'Cos from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you called me a cheat."

Delving in his back pocket for his wallet to pay the barkeeper, Logan watched the rapidly unfolding incident. Reasoning he could play the chivalry card and step in if the other players became violent, thus getting the sought after fight, he settled back against the chipped wooden bartop. 

"Got it in one, girlie girl," another player hissed. "I think you best give me and the boys our money back."

Taking a swallow of his beer, Wolverine looked the woman over. She was English, judging by her accent, with singularly celtic colouring of dark hair and fair skin. Oval-faced, with a small, straight nose, her mouth was crimped with irritation. She wore her long curling hair loose, and it fell about her shoulders like a cloak, almost to her waist. Dressed in tight black combat pants trimmed in silver and an even tighter purple rubber vest, she sat tall in her rickety chair, the overhead light dancing from the buckles on her chunky knee boots. To the casual observer, she seemed like a Cyber Gothic street demon who had wandered in by mistake, eyes made up charcoal black, purple streaks in her hair. Taking a sniff of the air, Logan paused. He did not detect a trace of fear in her scent. She was outnumbered four to one, and he doubted there were any weapons concealed beneath her eye-wateringly tight outfit, but she was completely unafraid.

"And if I tell you to go fuck yourself with a broom handle?" she enquired sweetly, trailing a fingernail across the table top. 

Stiffling a bark of laughter, Logan cradled his beer and waited for the other players to react. Suddenly, her stormy hazel green eyes snapped up and moved across the crowded bar to pin him like a hunting trophey. As close to taken aback as he came, Wolverine held her gaze, knowing anyone that fearless must have a very good reason for being so. Evidently realising he was not going to back down, the woman's lips twitched slightly in a quarter smile, and she returned her attention to the growling card players. 

"Then we gotta take back what's ours. One way or another." 

Logan shook his head slightly, amused, and downed the last of his beer, feeling it settle in his stomach. 

_There's one guy who won't be walkin' fer a week, if I'm readin' that chick right,_ he thought. _C'mon, darlin' – show us what yer made of. I've a feelin' I'll be addin' yer ta that list of Dangerous Women I got goin'. Yer smell like hundred percent proof waitin' fer a naked flame…_

Givng an exaggerated sigh, the Englishwoman pushed back her chair and rose, flicking the heavy curtain of her hair over her shoulders. Veiled aggression in her planted feet and straight back, shoulders squared a few inches past normal, she smiled icily. Her long slender limbs had the firm, compact musculature of an all-round athlete. Thinking of Jean Grey, whose taut abdomen and tiny waist was the product of youth and vanity more than a need for physical fitness, Wolverine found his interest piqued. Jean attended aerobics and ju-jitsu classes several times a week, and was a lot fitter than most women her age, but relied on her telekinesis in battle. The card player looked like a born fighter. It was in the way she moved, an economical, feral grace that spoke of controlled power. The studied card sharp slouch of previous minutes had gone, her eyes making tiny tracking jumps, waiting for someone to strike.

"Y'know sommat," she declared. "I'm really fed up of this shitty town."

Her hand blurred out and the player on her left folded like a collapsing card pyramid, his face turning purple. Without breaking her stride, she backhanded the next across the face, sending a glittering spray of blood and tooth fragments into the air. Her booted foot buried itself squarely in the crotch of the third, and he toppled over, eyes crossing. Deciding he wanted to participate rather than simply spectate, Wolverine waded in, breaking a chair over the nearest back. Within moments, the entire bar errupted into an all-out brawl. The pool table overturned with a thunderous crash, fists flew, glass smashed and voices bellowed. Looking around with disgust, the twelve-fingered mutant man looked upwards for divine intervention and promptly left.

The remaining card player produced a bowie knife from his jacket and brandished it. Spinning the blade in a tight circle, slashing up and down, he lunged at the Englishwoman. Upper body snapping from the hips, she leaned left to right, avoiding each strike. Logan realised she was laughing, a harsh, humourless sound. There was a slapping sound, and the knife flew from the wielder's hand to clatter noisily against the far wall. Her fist drew back and pistoned into his face, his nose breaking with a muffled wet crunch as he fell back, unconscious. Breathing hard, unsatisfied by the brief altercation, Wolverine found he was facing her, fists balled, stance screaming aggression. She said nothing, merely holding his fierce gaze, a trace of amusement in her expression.

At some point, the blade had made contact. A long, dripping slash marred the pale skin of her right shoulder. She touched a fingertip to the wound, then to her tongue, mouth curling upwards at the corners. Like a machined seam, the knife slash sealed up and vanished. Suddenly feeling the urge to pop his claws, Wolverine rolled his shoulders, a strange feeling of moving pressure behind his eyes. She had the same semi-psychotic look he sometimes saw when he looked in the mirror, two steps away from feral, more dangerous for the human intelligence driving it. 

"Have a go, if you think you're good enough," she challenged, her regional accent more pronounced, eyes sharp as cut emerald. 

"Oh, I'm good enough, darlin'," Wolverine retorted with a smirk. "I'm the best at what I do."

She sniffed the air, nose twitching enquiringly, and her kohled eyes narrowed. A shade of cynical humour lit her features, hands hanging loosely at her sides.

"And what you do isn't nice," she observed. "Feral type mutants are all the same – growl, fight, shag, kill…"

Somewhere behind her, a chair collapsed, dumping its unconscious human occupant onto the floor. Her head turned infinitesimally towards the sound, fingers curling slightly towards her palms. The neon Budweiser sign on the wall flickered, fizzed and plinked out. Wolverine took two steps forward, broken glass crunching beneath his boot soles. 

"That what yer do? 'Cos yer sure smell 'feral type' ta me," he said, allowing his gaze to rake her up and down. "Ain't seen a woman who can take out a whole barful of guys with her bare hands in a while."

She actually smiled at that, a slow upward turn of her lips that faded before it reached fruition. Her gaze flicked to the bar tender, who was reaching for the phone.

"No," she ordered firmly, wagging a finger. "Bad boy."

The barkeeper's eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed, giving a brief, pained moan. As if nothing had happened, she returned her attention to the tall Canadian.

"What can I say, it's a talent," she shrugged. "Places I go tend to fall down and go boom."

Wolverine, whose stance had remained in combat readiness, knees slightly bent, back braced, found himself grinning. Throughout the short, strange conversation, neither mutant had let down their guard, staying out of lunging range. The air was tight as a drum skin with tension, aggressive pheromones and intrigue.

__

I'd like ta make yer go 'boom', darlin', he thought lasciviously, tracing each contour and curve with his eyes. _Damn, is it hot in here?_

As if sensing his thoughts, which for all Logan knew could well be the case, she smirked and shifted her weight, left hip cocked. Her entire posture altered with alarming speed, shoulders back, a hint of a pout bowing her lips. Arms languidly swinging to outline her hips as she sashayed over, she favoured Wolverine with a dark smile.

"Though a girl could use some help to explode, every now and then," she purred, sliding her hands across his collar and chest. "Know what I mean, sweetheart?"

__

Goddamn get yer coat, bub, yer've scored! he crowed inwardly.

Framing her waist in his hands, the clawed mutant could not keep the grin off his face. He leaned forward to press his nose into the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of her hair. She was lithe and muscular beneath his hands, smelling in equal parts of vodka, jasmine and intangible wildness. He wondered if he could just haul her up against a wall, wondered if she would bite his shoulder and drag sharp nails down his back. He hoped so.

"I know exactly what yer mean," he growled, nuzzling her neck.

Lifting a hand to lace his fingers through her hair and pull her in, he saw a dangerous gleam in her hazel green eyes, a cold sliver of something destructive. The barroom tipped, the floor hurtling up to meet him, her boot heel grinding his neck into the glass-studded boards. 

"You aren't as good as you think, sunshine," she announced, dropping her knee down into the small of his back as she yanked his arms up in an expert lock. "All I had to do was waggle my arse and you're Play-Dough. Bloody pathetic."

Snarling, cheek mashed into the rough floorboards, Wolverine strained to lift his head. She twisted his arms, raising them against their natural rotation so he yelped, spine arching concave. An unseen force nailed him to the floor, a crushing weight that far exceeded that of the slender woman with her kneecap in his back. 

"Whaddaya think?" she breathed, leaning close to his ear, strong fingers prodding a spot low on his spine. "The abdominal aorta? Very messy, but won't kill you if you've a healing factor. You need bringing down a peg or two, and I'm just the girl to do it."

Logan snarled wordlessly in response, belatedly identifying the imprisoning force as telekinesis. Fury and adrenaline zipping through his system, male pride bruised at how easily he had fallen victim to his sex drive, he strove to turn his head. Something bright and metallic dangled just outside his field of vision. He squinted and it coalesced into two dog tags suspended from a ball chain. An indistinct purple fudge behind them told him they hung from the Englishwoman's neck. A single word, acid-etched into the metal, leapt out at him – Raven. It was accompanied by a multi-digit code number, uncannily similar to his own tags.

"Where the hell did yer get those?" he demanded.

"What?!" she seemed surprised, almost caught off guard.

"I said, where the fuckin' hell did yer get those tags!" he roared.

She did not answer him, her weight shifting as she turned towards the door. Silence for long moments.

"Shit," she muttered angrily, unhappily, and seemingly to herself. "Not now."

Before Wolverine could respond, she dropped his wrists, released her telekinetic hold and bolted for the door in a whirl of purple-streaked curls. Up and claw-fisted in a microsecond, Logan sprinted after her, two sniffs of the cool night air pinpointing her location. Leaping over a rusting steel rubbish bin and bulging shiny black refuse sacks, slimy decaying matter slipping beneath his feet, he skidded into the alley behind the bar. Peering through the garlands of white steam rising from the gutters and mouldy-damp brick walls rising either side, he stepped over a comatose tramp, nostrils narrowing at the stench of rancid flesh and stale alcohol. Obscured by shadows and drifting steam, she stood with her back to the dead end, crouching low, expecting attack.

"Get out of here, you stupid bastard!" she hissed. "Or you'll get us both fucked seven ways from Sunday!"

A blur of movement caught Wolverine's attention, head snapping up to track its progress. A black, fast-moving streak dropped from a creaking fire escape and streamed past him like smoke and razors, leaving an impression of scarlet eyes and white teeth. The Englishwoman had not moved, fists clenched, eyes wide and manic. Her whole body trembled with the effort of holding back, honed muscles quivering with tension, denying her instincts. Like a stopped film, the streak snapped into crisp focus as it halted. Clad entirely in black, from duster coat to boots, it was ghastly pale, etiolated beyond anything natural. Ember-eyed, teeth like ivory fishhooks, it pointed a long finger at the mutant woman, white-blue lips parting to speak. She regarded it with naked contempt and loathing, nose wrinkling, features creased. Every fibre of his being told Wolverine to kill it. He obeyed. Roaring as he lunged in, he buried his claws to the knuckle in its neck and twisted. With a muffled pop, the vertebrae parted, adamantium slicing through cold flesh like tissue paper. 

Bouncing heavily, a water-filled gourd, the severed head rolled to the woman's feet. Looking down at the fixed stare, the gelatinous balls already beginning to shrivel and disintegrate, white flesh liquefying, she spat a vicious curse.

"You fucking idiot!" she snarled. "I'm dead. I'm more than dead."

Letting out a formless growl, her head tipped back and she rose into the air, gracefully curling into a flip that carried her over the dead end wall. Running feet echoed through the night on the opposite side. Stunned, arms gloved to the elbow in slick, blackish blood he doubted was human or mutant, Wolverine stared blankly at the scummy bricks. The corpse at his feet was now little more than bones strung with shrunken sinew and gobbets of bloodless meat.

"What the fuck?" he asked the empty alleyway.

*


	2. 

* 

*

Shooing his pet cat, Fred, from the room with a projection of a fat, twitch-whiskered mouse sitting at the end of the hall, Professor Charles Xavier set down his first edition copy of 'Moby Dick' on the bedside table. It lay on top of the latest glossy editions of 'Astrophysicist's Weekly' and 'Modern Genetics'. Manoeuvring his paralysed lower limbs, he lay down and tugged the covers up over his chest. It was late, some considerable time past midnight, and the mansion was peaceful. Studying, training and impromptu missions meant his students were early to bed and prompt to rise. Closing his eyes, he scanned the entire building, as was his habit before retiring. Although his ancestral home was protected by a devious array of security systems, experience taught technology was not always proof against the X gene.

As he expected, most residents slept undisturbed. Thoughts of an upcoming chemistry test swirled through Bobby Drake's mind, an alphabet soup of formula, elements and compounds. Hank, as was usual in recent times, was dreaming of a mocha-skinned African goddess with milk white hair. Protected by a telepath's shields, Jean Grey projected little of what ran through her mind, save images of a spectral doctor who pursued her through her sleep. Piotr dreamt of his childhood in Russia and family left far behind, images Technicolor bright and happy. Cyclops was dozing, half watching a late-night hard house concert on cable. Head filled with sunlit plains and rolling deserts, Ororo Munro flew above the clouds with her blue furry lover in a dream world free from Sentinels and hatred. 

Of all the mansion's occupants, only Logan was wide awake. The surly Canadian had been ill at ease for more than a week, stalking the grounds like an alpha wolf who had discovered his territory had been invaded and was unsure what he could do to remedy the situation. Finally, Xavier had called him to his office and asked what was troubling him. Knowing that growls and glares would not dissuade the Professor, Wolverine had reluctantly recounted his odd experience. Xavier had listened, fingers steepled before his nose, and was forced to admit he was just as puzzled. Just as some feral mutants were labelled werewolves, others were branded vampires for their appearances. No mutant he knew of disintegrated after death. The Englishwoman, however, was cause for greater concern. She could be another of Colonel Wraith's escaped Weapon X test subjects. Or she may have no connection at all. The Canadian government was not the only administration that recruited mutants. Many had served various military organisations the world over. Dismissing the matter for examination at a later date, Xavier narrowed his focus.

_'Logan, it's late. I think sleep might be advisable,' _he sent. 

_'Chuck, do me a favour – stay the hell outta my head!' _The returned thought vibrated with indignation. _'I just skewered the mattress 'cos yer snuck up on me.'_

A heavily exaggerated image of shredded wadding and protruding springs popped into the bald telepath's mind, causing him to smile in the darkness. For a man of few words, Logan was surprisingly prone to hyperbole of the mental construct.

_'My apologies… I'll contact the furniture store in the morning. Good night, Logan.'_

An irritable grumble echoed in Xavier's head as he withdrew. He was unsurprised ten minutes later when a second sweep of the mansion revealed the clawed mutant was still very much awake. Hearing Fred pad delicately back into the room, disgruntled after a long and fruitless search for a phantom mouse, he settled down to sleep. The cat eyed his master critically, realising there would be no more attention tonight, and jumped up onto the quilt near his feet. Walking several neat circles to flatten out the material to his liking, he stretched, lay down and wrapped his sleek tail around his nose. Within a short space of time, _felis catus _and _homo superior_ were sound asleep.

*

Lying curled on her side, knees drawn towards her chest protectively, Ororo Munro whimpered softly in her sleep. Slender fingers flexing convulsively, her café au lait brow wrinkled as she fought faceless men in camouflage uniforms inside her head. They were forcing her into a submersion tank filled with sinister apparatus, and no matter how she struggled, she could not resist. Above them all, looming like a demented puppet master, Colonel John Wraith bared his teeth in a rictus grin, cruel, barking laughter booming overhead like gunfire. Like her team mates, the willowy weather witch spoke little about her ordeal at the hands of Wraith and Weapon X, preferring to fill her days with normal chatter about mundane activities. Or as close to normal as mutants with extraordinary gifts could hope to come. 

A mercury wash of pale moonlight poured through the open curtains at the large, leadlit bay window. Storm preferred to wake with the rising sun and sleep beneath the benevolent smile of the moon. A shadow blocked the moonlight, casting a block of darkness across the slumbering goddess's face. She muttered and turned over, drifting out of nightmares and into more restful REM sleep. Perched motionless on the wide stained oak sill, the window quietly clicking to at her back, the English mutant known as Raven listened for indications her forced entry had been noticed. Hopping down from the sill into the centre of the room, she cast a cursory glance at the bed, identifying the occupant by her tousled milky hair. 

Practised memory recalling the detailed personnel file provided by her sometime employer, she crept soundlessly to the door and turned the knob with gloved fingers. She counted herself lucky. Of all the windows to gain access to the mansion through, she had been forced to use the bedroom of a woman who could level a street block with lightning if she chose. All downstairs windows and doors, as well as the stairways, were fitted with heat, pressure and motion detectors. Suspended by her telekinesis three storeys up, it had taken Raven half an hour to disable the pressure pads and adamantium composite shutters outside Storm's window. The innocuous-looking metal squares in the mansion's ceilings concealed multi-positional lasers controlled by computer, capable of delivering anything from a stun blast to a bolt that could cut through sheet metal. And that was just on the upper levels. Stealing out into the hallway, hyper-keen senses on high alert for any inconsequential sound that could signal pursuit and discovery, she looked quickly left to right.

Supple and sure-footed as a panther, she bent low and sniffed the plush green paisley carpet, simultaneously sweeping the area with a low-level telepathic scan to see if anyone was awake. Rattling snores behind the next door she passed, accompanied by a brief snatch of song in Russian, identified Colossus. Turning a corner into a two-way junction of corridors, she inhaled deeply and paused, frowning. Someone with a distinctive, vaguely familiar scent had lingered outside the first bedroom on her right approximately two hours ago. It was a male scent, fruity-musky, tinged with Cuban cigars and recently drunk Kentucky bourbon. They had loitered outside the room without going in. An old, cracked porcelain plaque decorated with girlish pink flowers on the white painted door proclaimed the occupant as 'Jean'. Raven's frown deepened to a scowl as she recognised the scent. It belonged to the metal-clawed mutant she had encountered downtown Salem. 

_There's a first,_ she thought bitterly, with a good deal of satisfaction. _They've fucked up. Didn't tell me Mr Claws 'N' Attitude, whoever he is, was with the X-Idiots. Wonder if he's one of Weapon X's? Xavier's psycho-happy little family's certainly had enough experience with those butchers, if the rumours are anything to go by._

Extending her mental probe further into the cavernous mansion, brushing past the pneumatic Playboy dreams of a teenager whose aura was layered with ice blue, she encountered a massive telepathic presence. Even deeply asleep, the mutant's psionic capabilities were far ranging and very sensitive, already beginning to stir at her cautious approach. Recoiling back into the confines of her skull so quickly her physical body staggered, Raven drew an involuntary breath.

_Bloody hell!_ _That must be Prof X,_ she thought with grudging admiration. _A second more and he'd have woken up and turned my brain into mash potato… Somehow, I don't think I can shield against him… Hmmmm. Time to switch on the gizmo, methinks._

Touching a gloved finger to her temple, she activated the tiny psi-blocker mounted on a thin, non-reflective metal band. Instantly, her perception of the world shrank to five senses. While rendering her invisible to mental probes, the psi-blocker also inhibited her telepathic abilities, preventing her from reading thoughts or affecting minds. Triangulating her destination using visual reference points, she set of at a trot, moving purposefully through the upper floors, unseen and unheard by anyone. 

When she came to a set of oak double doors, the knobs polished brass, she looked around the corridor, sharp eyes combing the shadows and corners. Satisfied, she turned the handle with exquisite care and slipped inside. A vacant wheelchair stood next to the elegant four poster bed. Vision adjusting to the denser blackness within the master bedroom, she approached stealthily. Professor Charles Xavier lay on his back, eyes moving beneath the closed lids as he dreamed. A large Russian Blue cat lay between his feet. Amber eyes flickering open as it smelled the intruder, it hissed, instinctively recognising a predator. Raven's mouth pinched and the cat slumped over, comatose. Lifting her right hand, she clenched it into a fist. With a dull _shunk_, three wickedly curved bone claws sprang from between the knuckles, tearing through the thin glove. Taking a preparatory breath, she drew back her ivory spurred fist to strike.

*


	3. 

*

Pain. A raw feeling of injury that began just below his breastbone and travelled up across his shoulder. Charles woke up, dimly aware he was hurt. Groggy, he instinctively touched his chest, gasping as his fingers came away dripping redly. Pain and the sounds of a vicious struggle jolted him to full consciousness. Struggling to sit, he ducked as the antique oak chair from his desk flew over his head to smash into kindling against the wall. Teeth bared, adamantium claws ribboned in blood, Wolverine followed the chair, bodily slammed into the wall by an invisible force. Crumpling to the carpet, the Canadian mutant snarled and launched himself back into the fray, ploughing his assailant to the floor. Peering through the gloom, Xavier spied his attacker. Clad in a second-skin black bodysuit with a durable equipment belt, her long lean muscles slid like water as she drew back her fist and delivered a crushing right hook. 

Concentrating, the professor reached out to telepathically pinch her brain stem and induce unconsciousness. When nothing happened, he frowned and tried again. 

"Do somethin', Chuck!" Wolverine yelled, grunting as her claws punctured his thigh.

Noticing the psi-blocker, Xavier sent out an alarm call to his X-Men, packing everything he knew into a telepathic e-mail. Within moments, all his students were awake and racing to respond. Rearing back, Wolverine dropped low, feinted to the left and met her whistling clawed swipe with adamantium. Raven yelped as the indestructible metal sliced through her bone claws, leaving her with useless stumps that dribbled brown marrow. With a screech of rage, her injured hand came up, burning jade eyes narrowing. Swatted away like a troublesome insect, Logan flew backwards with a startled exclamation. The base of his skull striking the brass doorstop, his vision fuzzed and everything went black. 

"You were lucky," she told the professor. "But only the once."

Spinning on one heel, she took a running dive, arms crossed before her face, and crashed through the bay window. Trailing shattered glass in her wake, she spread her arms like a free-style diver and plummeted through the silvery night. Descent slowed by her telekinesis, she drew her knees to her chin and flipped smoothly over, hitting the ground running. Door banging back, a half-dressed Scott Summers charged into the professor's bedroom, closely followed by Jean, Ororo and Henry McCoy. Marvel Girl gasped and darted away to fetch a medical kit, commandeering Bobby and Piotr along the way. Dashing to the glass-studded hole where the window formerly sat, Cyclops squinted out over the grounds. He touched a finger to the dial on his visor, took aim, and fired. Sizzling through the darkness, the scarlet beam hit the fleeing assassin square on the torso, spinning her like a top. She toppled over just before the tree line, an indistinct huddle of limbs.

"Hoo yeah!" Scott exclaimed in triumph, pistoning a balled fist.

"That won't do it, Scout," Logan's gravelly voice reproached. Levering himself up, the feral shook his head and grunted. "She's got a healin' factor."

As he spoke, the English mutant clambered unsteadily to her feet and tottered towards the woods. Eyes slipping to shining white, Storm stepped forward, a sudden contained cyclone lifting her from her feet. Floating to the window on a cushion of air, the weather goddess turned her face to the skies.

"Red sky at night…" she murmured.

Swelling from nothing, a corpulent cumulonimbus cloud formed overhead, bulging with imminent lightning. Tossing back her head, Raven stared at the angry silver black cloud with dawning realisation. Mercury blue light zigzagged across the maw, bleaching out the surrounding landscape.

"Oh, shi-"

The lightning hissed down towards her, burning the very air. Nostrils filled with the stench of scorched ozone, eyes watering with the brilliance, she screamed as it hit her. From the window, the X-Men watched as she keeled over, faint wisps of smoke rising from her body. Wolverine cocked his head thoughtfully, glancing back to see Jean rush in with the medical kit to treat the professor.

"Mebbe somebody should go get her," he observed. "And find out why the hell she wanted ta skewer Chuck."

*


	4. 

*

There was an exceptionally bright light shining in her eyes, so bright she could see the tracery of red veins inside her closed lids. Or at least it seemed that way. Groaning, Raven screwed open her eyes and squinted fuzzily. A moderately strong fluorescent light, caged in stainless steel, hummed quietly overhead. Wondering why her head was pounding like a grizzly bear with a jackhammer, she knuckled her eyes. As she dropped her hands, they brushed something warm and metallic around her neck. Snapping to full alertness, she sat up, her legs swinging over the sides of the blanketless bunk she lay on. She tugged at the thick ring of steel and circuitry around her throat, realising her psi-blocker had gone, but she could still not sense any active minds in the area. She sniffed experimentally, expecting to detect steel, hot fluorescent tubing and telltale scent traces. Nothing.

_Shit! Bloody inhibitor collar!_

Cocking her head, she glanced around the ten by ten foot cell, noting the gleaming silver alloy walls and bars. Narrowing her eyes, she saw a slight hazing of the air between the sturdy bars. Deducing they were adamantium reinforced with an energy field, she tugged grumpily at the inhibitor collar, peering out into the gloom beyond the cell. The distinctive X emblem on the double doors told her where she was. 

_Well, let's just hope Xavier lives up to his reputation as an all-round goody two shoes and doesn't use me to fertilise the roses… Hmph, it's not like it'd make any difference. I'm dead the minute I hit the street and **they** find out things went pear-shaped._

The quiet scrape of a pushed back chair reached her ears and she stiffened, unused to the dramatic reduction of her senses. The mutant she had labelled Mr Claws 'n' Attitude strolled up to the bars, thumbs hooked through the belt hooks of his stonewashed blue jeans. He grinned nastily as her upper lip curled in a silent warning snarl, taking a drag on a hand rolled cigarette. 

"Rise an' shine, princess," he drawled. "There's a few people here that'd like a word or two in yer ear."

Ignoring the feral mutant, she rolled her neck and shoulders, popping her joints, stretching out stiff muscles. She glanced down at her ripped bodysuit, the light-absorbent black material showing pale flashes of unmarked skin beneath.

_At least they let me heal before they snapped on the collar,_ she thought. _Where exactly am I? Not in the mansion, obviously. Sublevels? Is it daylight…?_

Logan frowned as she continued to disregard his presence with an equanimity that bordered upon the unnerving. Lifting her arms above her head, she stretched out tall, eyes squinching shut, as flexible and inscrutable as a cat. The cosmetics, punky street gear and jangling jewellery were gone, her hair swept back into a sleek, functional braid that reached her waist. Except for the dayglow violet streaks in her dark hair, it was hard to tell she was the same woman. Her demeanour was cool, body language guarded, but Wolverine could smell a note of tension in her scent. She was afraid, but not of him, nor even of the rest of the X-Men. It was someone or something else entirely. Finally, she lowered her arms and deigned to make eye contact, the ball chain of her dogtags glinting at her neck.

_She's had military trainin', _Logan theorised, realising all her loosening up of muscle had been a cover for her to gaze around the room for possible weapons and points of egress. _Who are you, English? An' where didya get those tags?_

"So," he said conversationally, pulling up his chair, flipping it around and straddling the seat to lean on the back. "What's with runnin' around lookin' like the bastard child o' Marilyn Manson an' Lara Croft?"

Raven snorted dismissively and crossed her ankles, leaning back on her palms on the narrow foam bunk.

"This from Captain Caveman's idiot brother," she sneered. "Did Weapon X remove your dick somewhere along the way, less-than-pretty boy? 'Cos you seem quite happy to stand there taking verbal pot shots with adamantium bars between us and me in a friggin' inhibitor collar."

Taking a chance, her suspicions about the origin of his claws were confirmed as his smirk froze and bloody fury rose in his jet eyes. In one smooth movement he was out of the chair and centimetres away from the quietly fizzing bars, claws popping. Out of the gloaming, a tall, well-muscled young man in expensive red-lensed Oakley sunglasses stepped forward, placing a restraining hand on the Canadian's broad shoulder.

"I'm afraid that was necessary," Cyclops said calmly as Logan shook of his hand and reluctantly stepped away from the adamantium bars. "You weren't exactly playing nicely."

Raven eyed him disinterestedly, placing his age between eighteen and twenty. He had the air of a leader, but it was a mantle that did not sit easily on his shoulders. That would come with age and experience.

"Piss off, kid," she yawned, boredly examining her nails. "If I talk to anyone, it'll be the organ grinder, not the trained monkey togged up in designer labels. I'm fed up playing 'Prisoner Cell Block H'. Get me Xavier."

Despite himself, Wolverine grinned at her dismissive attitude towards Summers, seeing how his spine stiffened with barely concealed umbrage. Scott nodded curtly, turned smartly on one heel and left to report to the professor. Settling back against the wall, craggy features sculpted by shadows, Logan watched as the Englishwoman began to fidget slightly. She laced her fingers together until the knuckles whitened, curled the end of her braid around her index finger, swung her feet.

"What time is it?" she asked finally.

Inclining his head, running a desultory hand through the wild points of hair, Logan's black eyes narrowed.

"Why?"

"'Cos I got an appointment at the hairdressers, and my stylist gets arsey if I'm late."

The retort slipped off her tongue a little too quickly, casual vitriolic sarcasm that masked something else. She sat perched on the very edge of the bunk, curled legs, and coiled tension tighter than a steel spring. Wolverine shrugged, deciding to play along.

"'Bout eight thirty a.m."

The English mutant visibly relaxed a degree or two, then looped a finger through the inhibitor collar, tugging at it like a redneck forced to wear a tuxedo. She fixed Logan with her overly bright hazel green eyes, causing the hair on the back of his neck to prickle, despite knowing that the collar prevented her reading his mind. The quiet squeak of wheels along the corridor outside heralded the professor's arrival, drawing his gaze to the door. Moments later, Xavier wheeled himself into the room, Jean and Cylops flanking him. Filling the doorframe, Piotr stood at counterpoint, massive arms folded staidly across his chest. Halting before the bars, the professor regarded his attacker composedly, hands resting lightly at the armrests of his wheelchair. A bulky bandage was evident beneath his blue, button-down shirt, covering his front from breastbone to diaphragm.

"Xavier," she greeted neutrally, almost politely.

"Raven," he returned gravely. 

The Englishwoman inclined her head, a slow smile twitching the corners of her mouth. Sensing concealed, externally directed anxiety and a determined, indomitable will, Charles allowed himself a small frown. Although the inhibitor collar disabled her mutant gifts, her mental shields remained largely intact. The collar was not always completely effective, just as mental durability was not entirely grounded in the X-gene. 

"Why did you attack me?" he asked. "To whom do you owe allegiance?"

Raven's smile widened, emerald lights dancing in her eyes. 

"The answer to that, Charlie, is no-one."

Suddenly, she jumped to her feet and surged towards the bars, causing Jean to let out a gasp and take an involuntary step back. Stopping mere millimetres from the fizzle-hum of energy-charged adamantium, her upper lip skinned back over her pearly teeth.

"But why dontcha just crack my mind like an egg and find out what you want to know? Eh?" she demanded. Spinning on one heel, she stalked the confines of the cell. "But that'd be too much like His Royally-Deluded Majesty Magneto, wouldn't it? 'Cos I'm telling you even with this damned collar, you'd not be able to get inside by head without half killing me… and that's not your style, is it?"

She smiled again, but this time there was no humour. It was a simple pulling of lips into a predefined shape. Her gaze skipped between the gathered X-Men, noting the way they hovered protectively around Xavier. They were different than their photographs; a laughing Jean Grey shopping for lingerie, Storm strolling arm in arm with a furless Henry McCoy through Salem Park. Scott Summers playing soccer, Bobby skate-boarding, Colossus sketching by an anonymous lake. All in their mid to late teens, with the exception of Wolverine, their eyes were old before their time. Weapon X had left its indelible mark on them all. It was in their postures of wary combat readiness, cynical distrust written large across their features. Even the skate-punk teenager toying with a lumpy ice ball the size of his fist regarded her with a knowing far in excess of his years. The X-gene had gifted them with extraordinary powers while simultaneously robbing them of their youth and innocence. 

Xavier did not respond, but the dark indent between his brows deepened into a frown. He wheeled his chair forward, closer to the bars, Jean edging anxiously along behind him. The red-haired telekinetic eyed the captive English mutant as if she were wired up to her body weight in Semtex. 

"Maybe we can help you," the professor said quietly, ignoring the snort of derision from Logan. "I know you're in some kind of difficulty, that you were forced into attacking me against your will. That much I can sense."

Raven was silent, her expression momentarily altering from neutral to pained. For the briefest fraction of a second, she seemed to slump, the defiance evaporating. She suddenly seemed very young to Xavier's eyes, a lost child playing at being bad, though the fragmented glimpses into her mind told a vastly different tale. He suspected her past mirrored or possibly exceeded Wolverine's in violence and suffering.

"You can't help me," she whispered sadly. "You've nothing here but a classroom of precocious children and a feral who's got more sociopathic tendencies than Charles Manson."

Her chin lifted, features hardening, once more the cold-blooded soldier. The overhead light bleached her face to bone yellow, hiding her eyes in shadows.

"And don't think for a second I wouldn't gut you!" she hissed viciously. "You're a pay cheque on wheels, sunshine!"

Holding up a hand to placate Cyclops, who stepped forward, mouth opening to retort, Xavier regarded her mildly. 

"You're hardly in a position to make threats," he observed placidly, gesturing to the energised adamantium bars and inhibitor collar.

Raven smirked, running a finger around the collar before folding her arms.

"Yeah, well, we'll see about that," she said.

Eerily composed, she lifted her right hand and balled it into a tight fist, knuckles showing white through the thin skin. Realising what she was about to do, Logan took a step forward.

"Chuck…" he began.

With a muffled _shunk_, a trio of bone claws shot out from between her knuckles. With her healing factor suppressed, the bleeding did not stop, but increased. Rivulets of blood streamed down her arm, droplets plopping to the floor.

"Whadaya say, prof?" she demanded. "Either you take this collar off, or I bleed to death and you're none the wiser. Wouldn't want that on your conscience now."

Shaking her fist so drops of scarlet flew out, hissing like oil on a hotplate as they burned in the force field between the bars, she popped the claws on her left hand. Piotr swore in Russian, placing a massive hand on Bobby's neck to manoeuvre him from the room. An alarmingly large pool of glistening blood grew at Raven's feet, her face growing paler, lips trimmed with blue. Wolverine watched her dispassionately and rubbed at his beard with the heel of his hand.

"Let her die," he rumbled. "She tried ta kill yer."

"Much as the sentiment is justified, I'm afraid I must disagree, my ill-tempered friend," Hank observed. "What would it make us if we allow her to perish?"

Collapsing to her knees, lips now white, bodysuit sticky-sodden, Raven bared her teeth in a poor semblance of a grin. Her vision was beginning to fuzz, extremities numb with blood loss. Unconsciousness beckoned with soporific arms.

"Go, blue boy," she giggled. "Tick, tock, prof."

Blackness surged through her visual field, closing in like a camera iris. Blinking, fighting to hold onto consciousness, heart pounding loud in her ears, she plunged headlong into oblivion. Her last cognisant thought lingered, almost too faint for the telepaths to pick up.

__

Well, it's better I go this way than at their hands…

*


	5. 

*

The round, X-emblazoned doors to the medbay hissed quietly open, the movement controlled by hidden hydraulics. Cautiously, Bobby Drake peered in, his fist encased in a gauntlet of ice. The room was in darkness, save for a spotlight on the still form on the medical bed. More confident now, he sidled inside and closed the doors behind him. Cringing as they clicked to, the sound loud in the silence, he tiptoed further inside the room. As he took more steps, the muted bleep of a cardiac monitor reached his ears.

"Relax," a gravely voice informed him. "If she was awake, yer'd be tryin' ta hold in yer intestines by now."

Bobby started violently, involuntarily discharging ice spikes that clattered to the metal floor like tinkling glass. Eyes adjusting to the gloom, he saw Logan stand away from the wall, a lit cigar jammed between his teeth. Apologetically inching aside the ice spikes with a sneakered foot, the sole squeaking on the smooth floor, he clutched his skinny chest.

"You nearly gave me a coronary there, Wolvster," he protested.

Wolverine, not looking sorry in the least, frowned. He jabbed a thick finger towards the prone woman on the medical bed.

"That's nuthin' compared ta what she'd do ta yer. Yer about the right size fer a human shield. Big enough ta protect the torso, light enough ta carry away when yer need ta run."

"How d'you know?" Bobby asked, half-knowing the answer.

Logan grinned thinly and folded his arms, leaning back against the wall, listening to the faint hum of electric circuitry behind the panel.

"'Cos it's what I'd do, an' she's just as feral as this ol'Canucklehead."

"But not so hairy," Bobby nodded sagely. "Why d'you suppose she wanted to kill the professor?"

The Canadian mutant shrugged nonchalantly, watching the teenager's gaze skip between him and the unconscious Englishwoman. 

"Dunno. Chuck'll find out eventually. If there's one thing he's good at, it's gettin' people ta tell him stuff – even if they don't wanna."

Taking a step closer, Bobby lowered his voice self-consciously.

"D'you think she can hear us?" he whispered. "What if she gets into our heads?"

Logan angled his head, appearing to listen to something inaudible. Straining his ears, Bobby quickly gave up trying to hear whatever he was listening to and scuffed the floor with the toe of his right sneaker. 

"Won't happen, kid. The prof has a psy-jammer on her. The minute she wakes up, he's gonna put the squeeze on her TP and TK."

"Oh." Bobby looked at the medical bed again. "She seems kinda, well, _normal_, lying there like that. She's even got freckles like me…"

Slinging an arm around the boy's shoulders, Wolverine guided him to the door, seeing Bobby was spooking himself. Since Weapon X, the apparently happy-go-lucky teenager looked for darkness in everyone he met, seeing Janus in every face.

"Yeah, well, half-pint. Yer look normal until yer ice up, Petey looks normal until he skins up, an' I just look plain handsome until I pop my claws. Haven't yer got classes or somethin'?"

Bobby nodded and slunk through the door, skate sneakers squeak-squealing on the floor. Waiting until he heard the teenager enter the elevator, Logan closed the door and thumbed the DNA coded keypad. 

"Nice speech – you oughta write that crap down." The voice came from the medical bed, raspy-dry and somewhat amused. A creaking came from the bed as she tested the restraints. "Now, that's just mean. Anyone would think I was Hannibal Lecter."

Ambling over, Wolverine looked down at her, hands hanging loose and ready at his sides. She gazed up at him, a smile twitching her lips, but her eyes were glacial and calculating. 

"This how you like me?" she demanded. "All tied up?"

The Canadian gave a rumbling laugh, reluctantly admitting to himself that he respected her courage. Even restrained, a psy-blocker disabling her mental powers, she refused to give an inch to her captors. Popping a claw, the adamantium glinting in the overhead light, he leaned down, bringing his face close to hers. 

"Now, darlin', don't go givin' me ideas," he grinned, running the sharp claw tip down her cheek. 

A thin, bleeding line followed the claw, skin sealing as quickly as it broke. She shifted her weight on the medical bed, the small muscles of her jaw clenching. 

"You take off this psy-blocker, and I'll put some ideas in your head," she breathed. "Right before I turn your brain into dogfood."

Wolverine chuckled, inhaling her scent, which was spicy-metallic with fury and a slight note of arousal. The restraints creaked again, thick, adamantium-threaded material held in a state of tension. She wiggled up the medical bed as far as she could.

"Aren't you going to tell your professor I'm awake?" she asked quietly. 

He shook his head, gripping the sides of the gurney.

"Not just yet."

The restraints gave a little, fibres parting a fraction of a centimetre. 

"That's unbelievably stupid, _Wolverine_."

He dared to flicked an escaped curl away from her brow, fingers grazing the self-adhesive psy-blocker.

"I ain't the one strapped down, _Raven_."

Green eyes flicking to the buckles and back again, she gave a shoulderless shrug.

"Good point."

Wolverine leaned in so close he could feel the soft puff of her breath, knowing if he got any closer she would definitely bite. Smirking as his scent altered, pupils dilating, she lifted her face, angling her jaw so her throat was exposed. Reeling back as she head-butted him, skull clanging from adamantium, Logan snarled. The move dislodged the psy-blocker. Restraints unbuckled by invisible hands, she was off the medical bed and lunging with unsheathed bone claws before he hit the floor. Two-thirds regrown after their impromptu pruning, they grazed Wolverine's stomach as he rolled over and leapt up. Rearing back, she made a swatting motion and he slammed against the far wall. Completely winded, he crumpled down with a pained grunt. 

Letting out a furious, strangulated shriek, she clutched her head. Falling to her knees, breathing hard, sweat broke out on her forehead. 

"Bastard," she snarled. "Get out of my head! Arghhhhhhhh!"

Shaking violently, she pitched onto her side, knees drawn convulsively up to her chin. The medbay doors sighed open, admitting Xavier and Jean Grey. The professor, frowning sternly, his will bent on subduing the English mutant.

"Logan," he said reprovingly. "I thought you had more sense."

As close to embarrassed as he came, the Canadian levered himself upright, extremely aware of Jean's chiding gaze. 

"Xavier," Raven gasped, a trickle of blood slipping from her nose. "I suppose you want to talk. But no group hugs, okay?"

*


	6. 

*

"Why do you keep looking at the sky?" Charles Xavier asked, a china teacup in one hand, the other petting the head of a large Russian Blue cat. 

Fred eyed the English mutant warily, the very tip of his sleek tail switching uneasily. He huddled down in the professor's lap, lambent eyes occasionally moving to the door. Flanked by his X-Men, Xavier had relocated to his study in the mansion above the sublevels. Raven looked at the bone china teacup, at the tiny pink roses decorating it, and smothered the urge to laugh. If she started, she may well be unable to stop. The entire situation was almost surreal. She had been allowed to wash and change into fresh clothes, albeit baggy school-issue sweatpants and shirt. Apart from Colossus's massive, mercury-skinned presence over her left shoulder, she could have been at high tea. A large plate of buttered scones sat on the coffee table, along with a steaming pot of Earl Grey. 

"Nice crockery," she commented, ignoring the question. "Royal Doulton?"

Xavier gave the smallest of urbane smiles, sipping a small mouthful of hot tea. 

"Naturally."

_Naturally. Hmph,_ she thought, gaze momentarily sliding to Wolverine. _You're all the same, do-gooders. Wonder how you'd react if **they** come storming in here after dark and you find your TP doesn't do shit…_

Leaning back in the chaize-lounge, she considered her options, which were few and far between. The mutant teenagers were clustered protectively around their mentor, primed and ready to leap to his defence. A reluctant Cyclops had removed her inhibitor collar at Xavier's request, just managing not to jump when she growled at him like a leashed panther. 

"Logan tells me you mentioned Weapon X," the professor continued in the same calm, conversational vein. "Are you a former subject of Colonel Wraith's? Or do you have ties to SHIELD?"

The English mutant snorted softly, recalling the last time she had seen Nick Fury. She had been on the business end of his Colt .45 and given the octogenarian one more scar to remember her by. 

"SHIELD is rotten from the inside out," she stated coldly.

The professor regarded her placidly. She knew he was a genius and regarded by many in the mutant community as some sort of latter-day messiah. He would make a terrible enemy should he ever decide to compromise his ethics. 

"Care to elaborate on that?" he asked midly.

Raven met his gaze, her hazel green eyes locking with his blue. She felt the strength behind his stare, the manifold layers of his mind and seemingly limitless telepathic power. 

"Nah."

Swinging her feet, she drank a little more tea, directing a casual glance over her shoulder at the leadlit bay window. If she timed it correctly, she could be through it and away before the lumbering Russian could react. Xavier sighed and set down his teacup. 

"Raven, please. We can help you, if you allow us. I sense you have very few options – how can accepting our help make what is already a grave situation worse?"

Darting another glance at the sky, seeing the afternoon blue begin to darken towards early evening and approaching darkness, Raven felt her stomach clench. Involuntarily, her fingers rose to a spot just behind her left ear, probing the bone as if to feel what lay beneath. Abruptly, she made a decision.

"Alright. Why the bloody hell not," she muttered, almost to herself. 

The gathered X-men shifted, subtle changes of position and expression indicating their surprise. Logan regarded her with mingled suspicion and interest, palming his beard before folding his arms. Quite deliberately, Jean edged closer to the professor, green eyes hard above her pert nose. Beast pushed his glasses further up his furry nose, absently straightening Bobby's lopsided baseball cap. Perched on a sofa arm next to her lover, Ororo folded her hands in her lap. Cyclops's face remained unreadable, eyes concealed behind ruby quartz Okaleys. 

"You wanna know why I tried to shish-kebab you, Xavier?" the English mutant asked rhetorically. "Well, I'm gonna tell you a nice little story; Once upon a time there was a mutie bint, not a particularly remarkable mutie, but a feral with added bonuses – she got herself recruited by some nasties in the government, she got slung over to Europe on assignment. Then she woke up ten years later strapped to a table in the Weapon X beta site in New Mexico."

A ripple of shock ran through the assembled mutants, causing Raven to smile thinnly. She leaned over and helped herself to a buttered scone, spreading it thickly with strawberry jam.

"Didn't know about that, did you?" she sneered. "Don't go fretting though. It fell down and went boom."

An impolite snort came from Wolverine's direction, part sneer, part laughter. 

"That don't explain why yer wanted ta skewer Chuck, darlin'."

Xavier leaned forward in his wheelchair as she bit into the scone, licking jam from her lips. 

"The British government sold you out?" he asked.

Raven shook her head, a little uncertainly, brushing crumbs from her lap.

"Nah. At least, I don't think so. Somebody high up in SHIELD's got sommat to do with it – somebody above even Nicholas bloody Fury's head. Let's just say when I escaped they weren't too happy… will you stop projecting quite so damn loudly, Wolver-weenie. I can't hear myself think."

The last utterance was injected with considerable venom, the casual insult causing a fleeting grin to appear on Scott Summer's lips. 

"Yer borin' us ta death," Logan yawned, ignoring the insult. "Will yer get ta the point already."

"How's about I take your arrogant arse outside and kick it back to Canada?" she growled.

Xavier held up an authoritative hand, halting the bickering before it escalted into a physical confrontation. Despite her nonchalant attitude, the English mutant was extremely agitated, needing only the smallest of pushes to send her over the edge.

"Does the mutant that attacked you and Logan have anything to do with this?"

Visibly calming herself, Raven momentarily pursed her lips and shook her head before continuing. 

"_That_ was no mutant, Charlie. That was the reason I tried to top you," she revealed, voice tight as a harpstring with suppressed fury and hatred. 

She tapped her temple with her index finger, then jerked her thumb over her shoulder towards the bay window.

"I have a transmitter in my brain, put there by Weapon X. They didn't have time to activate it before I escaped, but it's still in there. The thing the Canuck saw was one of a group that have the means to activate it and lead whoever's pulling strings at SHIELD right back to me. Weapon X may be officially dead, but it's not buried, not by a long chalk. If I don't kill you by sunset tonight, they flip the switch and I'm a walking, talking beacon."

Xaviers face fell into a grim, contemplative mask and he steepled his fingers before his nose. He reached for his cup, wincing as the stitches sealing his chest wound pulled. 

"Why would they do that, and what are they, if not mutants?" he asked. "There are some in the mutant community who would see me dead, more in the pro-human organisations – but what Logan described wasn't human."

Raven gave a brief, colourless bark of laughter, the remains of the scone untouched on her delicate china side plate. 

"No, you're dead right there. It was a vampire, and I've got a newsflash for you – there's a whole shedload of them that want you dead more badly than the FOH. Since the explosion in mutant birthrates and public panic, it's getting harder for the leeches to hide. With your little crusade here, Charlie, you've pissed them off good style." She gestured to the sky. "And as soon as it gets dark, they're gonna expect a report. If I don't, they'll rip out my throat, drain me dry and hogtie me up like a Christmas present for Weapon X."

*

__


End file.
